


Faith

by Metal_mako_dragon



Series: War and Peace [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-11-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metal_mako_dragon/pseuds/Metal_mako_dragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Damn it all, Hawke thought, trying to find something else to think of. His first time wasn't exactly the best memory, as was anything associated with Vincent Farthern."<br/>- 'A War Less Just', Chapter 7</p><p> He didn't think of it as lust, not truly. To him it was something greater, superior to his friend's lewd jokes and comments about the girls in the village. Garret knew that he was capable of more than that, if only he would be given the chance. It was unfortunate that his chance came in the form that it did.</p><p>This story is part of my ongoing series in the 'A Life Less Ordinary' universe. Reading it on its own will probably be quite confusing and unnecessary, although possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I wrote quite a while ago now but wasn't sure whether to post or not. It's not exactly a pleasant story, as such, although I think it's important for Hawke's character and to explain more than simply hint at the defining moments of his life as I have been doing in the series so far. I Also hope that it will be an insight back to his days with his family and cement some of his more prominent personality traits.
> 
> As I have used the warning for non-consensual sex, I think it's only fair to define it further here. This theme is quite light, if that can be possible. I don't wish to make light of it, just to state that it is not explicit, as such, and therefore there will not be any scenes of it. I just think that it's there enough that it needs to be mentioned and I wouldn't want to not mention it and make it look like it was a theme I was ignoring. I don't think that would be right.  
> Also I did not use the under-age warning because in this story Hawke is 17 years old, going on 18 and where I am from (Scotland) the legal age of consent is 16. Sorry if this changes for your area!
> 
> Ok, on with the story!

“That Penny is such a nice girl,” his mother had said over dinner, “I think it’s wonderful you’re spending more time together. You need more respectable friends than those two troublemakers you usually associate with, Garret.”

The statement seemed innocuous enough, if there had any substance to it. For Garret Hawke, who had come up with the lie a few days before to explain away his prolonged absences in the evenings, it only served as a source of thrilling guilt. The reason that he had to lie in the first place produced most of the thrill, as did the fact that, so far, he seemed to be getting away with it completely.

His friends, the ‘trouble makers’ as his mother called them, all they did was talk of the girls, few that there were in the village worth talking about as far as Garret was concerned. At sixteen he was sure that by now most of their boasts and highly licentious talk were normal, enough so that he felt he should join in. Penny, the farmer’s daughter, was the most coveted of their fantasies by far. Dark golden hair, worn in thick plaits over her shoulders, always dressed in fine cotton dresses with silk ribbons in her hair. As far as he was concerned her clothes only served to annoy him, their luxury only a stabbing reminder of his family’s own poverty, as opposed to the other boys’ obvious lusts.

The other reason he had chosen her was that she was always there these days, watching him and his friends, being as she was the daughter of the farmer they worked for. Garret had taken the job in order to make sure his family could eat, while the others, namely Grant and Seamus, seemed to have taken their posts as a means to an end. She was a simple choice because she was obviously interested in him, something Garret felt he could take advantage of in one way if not the other.

“She’s lookin’ at us again,” Grant had said earlier that day, in a stupidly conspiratorial whisper that made Garret shake his head, “look. _Look_ Garret.”

“You shouldn’t stare if someone’s staring back,” Garret replied, stomping the pitchfork in his hands down into the dry soil, watching it crumble up in a scramble of dirt and potatoes, “why don’t you just go talk to her anyway? I don’t think I can take much more of your gawping.”

“It’s you she’s gawping at,” Seamus butted in, grinning as Garret wiped his face, trying to rid himself of the sweat there, “the only way you’re gonna get Grant to pack it in is to ask her yourself.”

“I ain’t interested in any girl right now,” Garret said sternly, making his friends do their usual unconvinced groans, “got other things to worry about.”

“What, like...” Grant started in his usual irritating drawl, only to be interrupted.

“Alright boys, break it up, I need this crop up before midday, and mind you leave ‘em out. I’ll have you collecting later.”

It had been enough for him to know, that as his friends shuffled away, trying to make themselves look busy while still eying up the pretty girl sitting on the fence as she tried to throw subtle glances in his direction, that he was the only one looking at the man who had just spoken. Garret watched as he walked back towards the farmstead, opening up the large barn doors and leading out the cart horse.

Vincent Farthern was as close a friend as he had ever known his father to have and as secretive a man as Malcolm Hawke was himself. It was lucky that was so, as far as he was concerned, as his father’s friendship with the man had allowed Garret the chance of a job, something he was sure he would have found nowhere else. Not many people in the village trusted their family, what with his mother running from her relatives in Kirkwall and no one knowing of his father’s past. Vincent had offered to let him work for the summer and over after if he needed any more help, to which Hawke was very grateful.

Grateful mainly because he needed the coin in order to keep food on the table; it was simply a bonus that the man was easy on the eyes, as far as Garret was concerned. No one in is family had such fair hair, like ripe wheat, dropping down into eyes as blue as the summer sky above him. He was tall, taller than Garret by a few inches, and broad shouldered. And he was handsome, Garret thought, handsome in the same way as his friends thought girls pretty, or as far as he could rationalise it. He hadn’t ever truly spoken to the man, simply looked. Garret wasn’t sure what it meant, not really. Was it the same? He sometimes asked himself, Did he feel what his friends felt? He though their behaviour towards girls to be foolish, juvenile. Yet when he caught sight of Farthern dousing his head in the water trough, his hair glistening in the sunlight as the water ran over his naked chest, Garret felt it like a visceral heat, down from his heart to his groin. There’s something more, he would tell himself, what I feel is more, it has to be.

He’d met the man when his father had introduced them four months ago now, and the few, _very_ few times he’d had the privilege of being invited to their home to join them for their dinner, but it was enough for Garret to enjoy, silently. What he had didn’t need to be spoken, as far as he had convinced himself, it was more mature and unadulterated than the simple, childish lust his friends joked about. It was a guilty contentment, as far as he was concerned, but one he was sure he could enjoy nonetheless.

He had been staring as Vincent led the horse past his daughter and towards the cart, he knew he had, because he didn’t notice that anyone was near him until it was too late. He felt the shove against his shoulders but hadn’t been prepared for it, tripping over his own feet before falling face first into the turned up earth, narrowly missing hitting himself with the pitchfork. The dirt crumbled beneath his fingers as he pushed himself over onto his back and looked up at the person towering over him. It had been no surprise at who he had found there, only that the boy hadn’t waited until the way home to try anything as he usually did.

“Why’d you keep staring at her, eh, pauper?” Jareth Hornsby was not only the largest boy he knew, taller than him by a head at least, but also the one with the most sense of superiority, for what reason he could not tell. Of course Garret had filled out over the summer as well, broadening at the shoulders and, what with the hard labour, bulking out his arms and chest. Since turning seventeen a few months ago he had found it infinitely easier to put on muscle, something he was very grateful for. Yet there still seemed to be a difference between them, not matter how much he grew. Jareth’s family lived over the river, with a small farmstead of their own, and Jareth had only started working for Farthern to make his own coin. His family had enough money to hire farmhands of their own; Jareth seemed to think that made him royalty of a sort, which only made Garret sneer. All he knew of the boy was that he had been smitten with Penny all summer and didn’t seem at all pleased that she only seemed to have eyes for the entirely uninterested Garret Hawke.

“Wasn’t lookin’ at nothing,” Hawke replied soberly, dusting himself down as he stood up; if there was one thing Garret disliked it was trouble, and he knew that, where Jareth was concerned, his own temper was already fragile.

“Don’t seem that way to me,” Jareth said, not backing down as usual, while he pretended to continue digging, “only all you do is stare, but you ain’t got the metal to say a thing to her, and it best stay that way.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business,” Garret said tightly, picking up his pitchfork and trying his best to keep his temper, his friends shifting closer to him in case anything started.

“Oh what’s this, eh?” Jareth said, a sly grin on his face, calling over his shoulder to the cronies he normally kept company with before turning back to Garret, “Got something to say to me Hawke? Or are you gonna clam up on that too?”

“Best to leave it,” he heard Seamus say under his breath, “remember what your ma said ‘bout fighting...”

“Only that _you_ haven’t said a word to her either,” Garret retorted to Jareth, ignoring Seamus, wiping away the mud he could feel stuck to his chin, “and I don’t know if that’s cause you’re certain she’ll turn you down or because you won’t even understand her answer.”

“Big words from the son of a freak,” Jareth turned nasty in the face of the accusations, instantly jumping on the sore point of the rumours in the village, making Garret’s eyes narrow with anger, “maybe you don’t say anything cause she’ll find out that you ain’t good Chantry goers like her. Maybe the templars...”

There hadn’t been time for another word to leave his mouth because, despite the disparity in their size, Garret had barrelled into Jareth’s middle and thrown the boy to the ground. Jareth landed with a cry of surprise and a burst of air as he was winded. Garret could hear the catcalls of the others, hear the sound of running feet, but there wasn’t enough time to take any notice while he quickly straddled the dazed boy, pulled back his fist and cracked it against his jaw, then his cheek, then, as he pulled back a third time, found himself rolled as Jareth, snarling, moved beneath him. He struggled to gain the advantage but the other boy was too big, too strong, and Garret found himself trapped as Jareth returned the favour. The heat was nauseating, hot breath in his face as they wrestled against the dirt. Jareth managed to secure him as he leaned back and snarled. The punch caught him across the cheek and mouth, while he tried to defend himself with his arms and gain purchase on the ground around him. Thankfully the second blow, which he had been anticipating, never came as Jareth was suddenly pulled off of him and a familiar voice spoke.

“What in the Black is going on here?” Vincent Farthern stood, silhouetted by the midday sun like some sort of vengeful knight, as Jareth stumbled back, “I don’t need your violence, Jareth, I’ve had it up to here with you already!”

“Messer I...” Jareth started but wasn’t allowed to continue.

“I want you home, right now,” Vincent said, his voice rough with anger, “and I don’t expect you back, y’hear me? I’ll be having a word with your mother about this, so don’t bother trying to cover up for yourself, you understand me?”

“I didn’t even start anything, you can’t talk to me..!” Jareth spat back, raising his voice but looking distinctly uncomfortable when Farthern only narrowed his eyes and looked at him with pure disdain.

“You’re on my farm, workin’ for me,” Farthern said, “and I’ll talk to you any way I damn well please! Now git, and I’ll be sure it stays that way.”

Hawke accepted the hand he was offered from the girl that rushed into view, allowing Penny to help him up. Grant and Seamus also moved closer, but seemed unwilling to get themselves involved, even if their girl was right there in front of them.

“You’re bleeding Hawke,” she said, sounding far too excited, her eyes bright, “but the way you took him down, Maker, that was impressive!”

“Penny, for goodness sakes girl, don’t encourage them,” Vincent was shaking his head, “go inside and get your mother to fix up something to drink. All you, come on now get back to your work! There’s no time to be wasting! Garret, you’re a mess boy, come on there’s a pail in the barn.”

Penny looked unimpressed to be sent inside when all the excitement was elsewhere, but she obeyed her father nonetheless. Garret, still trying to reign in his irritation, followed Vincent while he nursed his throbbing jaw. He could feel the blood from his split lip, licking at the stinging flesh and tasking the metallic tang of blood and the earthy taste of soil. Fucking little shit, he thought viciously, if he says the word templar to me one more time I’ll bloody kill him. Jareth had always been somewhat subtle in his jibes, but recently the threat in his words had become all the more obvious. His father was a careful and cautious man but it was a tightrope walk to keep both his and Bethany’s secrets safe. The thought of some idiot ruining the lives of his father and sister over some simpering girl was enough to make Garret see red. So he wasn’t exactly thinking straight as he walked into the pleasant shade of the barn.

“There you go lad,” Garret blinked and reached up automatically to catch the rag that Vincent threw to him, “get yourself cleaned up. If I send you back to your mother looking like that it’ll be me that gets the whipping. The pail’s over there behind the hay bales.”

“Thank you,” Garret said softly, feeling a shy smile quirk to his lips almost involuntarily.

It had been then that the atmosphere had changed. He hadn’t noticed it at first, still preoccupied as he was with the thoughts of Jareth. It had been as he looked down, letting out a sigh of frustration on finding blood dripped onto his shirt before reaching down to pull it off, that the sense of tension in the air rose. He had done it only so as to allow him to scrub at his shirt with the water more easily, hoping to get the blood out so his mother wouldn’t belt him for staining yet another one, but the feeling of eyes on his back as he bent over the large pail and rubbed at the fabric was unmistakable. It had been a little confusing, at first, as he subtlety glanced over his shoulder and found Vincent Farthern picking up a heavy bridle and looking hurriedly away before their eyes had a chance to meet.

Was he..? Garret thought as he put down his shirt and picked up the towel, looking back to the pail as he wet the cloth and rubbed at his face and arms, wiping away the smears of dry mud and the blood on his chin. No, he wouldn’t be, why would he? Is he that angry with me? Bloody hell I'm never going to hear the end of this if he tells father. Garret continued to wash himself in silence, yet the feeling did not dissipate. He cupped his hands together and lifted the water to splash at his face, enjoying the feeling against his hot skin. Picking up his shirt he dabbed it roughly against his face before standing up and turning back towards the front of the barn to return the cloth. Only he hadn’t had to walk to find the man he was looking for.

“Oh, um, thank you for this,” Garret had said quietly, handing back the rung out cloth to the taller man who was standing by the hay bales, the bridle slung over the top of one of the large, heady smelling bales.

“Not a worry,” Vincent said kindly, “only I wish you wouldn’t pick fights with that Hornsby boy, he’s nothing but trouble. You’re father wouldn’t like to know about it, I’m sure.”

“Please, don’t tell him,” Garret asked, feeling a little jolt of worry at the thought.

“I won’t, not this time,” Vincent smiled, “but I want you to promise me you’ll be more careful next time. Violence doesn’t solve everythin’.”

“I will,” Garret said, “be careful that is, I mean...thank you.”

The length of time that Vincent watched him, short as it was and yet long enough to be noticeable, had set Garret on edge. He felt the need to fidget, feeling the sweat running down his back, while he was silently scrutinised.

“Penny was right,” he said eventually, making Garret swallow, “you did hurt yourself. Here, let me have a look.”

It had seemed odd, yes, but also innocent enough. He let Vincent take hold of his chin gently with one hand, step forwards and look closely at the large gash in his lip and the reddened flesh of his cheek. He avoided his eyes, knowing, embarrassingly, that there was a heavy blush rushing across his cheeks and brow. He could feel it, trying desperately to will it away and, in turn, only making it worse. His lips parted slightly. He could feel the man’s eyes on him, their proximity, the heat and the stuffiness of the barn making his head swim. When he did finally find the courage to look at the man straight, he found that Vincent wasn’t looking at his lip at all. He was staring straight at him, the gaze rather intense. Hawke swallowed again.

“I think you’ll live,” the older man said, clearing his throat and stepping back, “on you go, you’d better get back out into that field a get them taters before they dry out too much. Then I’ll need you over in the hay field.”

“Of course,” Garret said, slipping his shirt back on, grimacing at the way it stuck to his sweat slick torso, before hurrying out of the barn.

He had hardly been able to concentrate for the rest of the day. Vincent’s eyes were burned into his memory, the stare that he had only ever seen between his mother and father, or the look Grant gave to Penny. Why would Vincent Farthern of all people look at _him_ that way? He knew that he’d been smitten with the man, but that was just a fantasy he had, nothing more surely. Farthern was married with a daughter, why on earth would he be interested in a boy like him? Garret didn’t know but, as he worked late in the hay field, reaping the tall, stalks and bundling them into sheafs, the feeling of fingers against his chin and eyes on his did not leave him.

“You ready to head home?” Grant had asked him as they walked back to the barn carrying the hay.

The blue of the sky had deepened to a lustrous royal hue and the colour on the wheat around them was the golden light of evening. A pleasant breeze had started up while they had finished their hard days work and Garret appreciated the relief it brought, shifting his damp hair against his head and playing about the small of his back.

“Not yet,” Garret had said, quickly coming up with a lie to cover himself, even though he wasn’t entirely sure why he was even lying in the first place; he had no clue what he was doing, only that he had to do _something_ and now was as good a time as any, “I...I have to ask Penny something.”

“What?” Grant had said in alarm, while Seamus chuckled.

“Looks like you’ve left it too long,” Seamus said as he passed them, “you had your chance Grant.”

He’d listened to them bicker as they walked back in the sunshine, waning but warm against his back. In truth he was far less calm than he appeared, his heart hammering in his chest. What on earth am I doing? He had thought. This is mad, this is _mad_. They had dropped off the hay in the pile by the barn door and he had hung around until Seamus had dragged Grant off, winking to him as they left. He had stood there for what felt like an age until the sound of a cart horse became audible. It rolled into view around the edge of the barn and Garret had kept his eyes on the fence and waited until Vincent drove the cart into the barn and dismounted. He tried to keep his heart from beating so fast but it didn’t seem entirely possible.

“You’re still here lad?” Vincent asked him, looking a little concerned.

“I...I thought I could help you bring in the hay,” Garret covered with the story he had thought up hours before, only realising how poor a lie it was when he said it out loud, “I know you don’t like to leave it loose.”

“Oh,” Vincent had replied, nodding absently, “alright. That would be a good help. Let’s get it started then, don’t want you out too late.”

It hadn’t taken long, bringing the loose sheafs to the back of the barn and tying them up with thick rope. He worked quickly to try and calm his nerves, to try and ignore the fact of what he was doing, or perhaps to try and figure out what he was doing at all. The heat of the work was intense and he once more removed his shirt, dumping it onto the side of an empty pail. However, the plan he had, to try and ask, somehow, in some way, whether what had happened earlier was all in his mind, appeared to have failed; they had finished the work all too quickly. Garret stood and watched as Vincent piled up the sheafs and turned back towards him, brushing the chaff from his clothes. He didn’t move as the man approached. What in Thedas am I doing here? He asked himself for the hundredth time.

“That was grand, Garret, many thanks,” Vincent smiled, “you’re a good lad, I’ll let your father know I’ll definitely keep you on past summer, if you can that is.”

“Really?” Garret could feel his eyes lighting up; that was news to celebrate at least.

“Of course,” the older man said, “not one of the hired hands I’ve taken on this summer has put in as much effort,” adding with a pat on his shoulder and a sly smile, “I can see why my daughter is so smitten with you.”

“She is?” Garret asked, trying to sound as calm as possible, swallowing down the lump in his throat as he tried to sound as confident as possible, “Shame I’ll have to disappoint her then.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Garret did not look at Vincent, keeping his eyes staring towards the main barn door which was mainly hidden behind the hay bales. He could feel the eyes on him though, feel that intense stare once more. The heat was worse now; as the barn had been cooler during the day, it seemed to have trapped the earlier heat and created a heady atmosphere. It made Garret feel a little giddy.

“That right?” Farthern didn’t sound angry, or particularly upset; more curious, if Garret was to guess. He looked to the other man, “got someone else you’re interested in, do you?”

“You could say that,” Garret replied, licking his lips nervously, feeling the ridge of the crusted blood there, his eyes flicking nervously up and down across Vincent in a plight to ignore his heavy stare. There was a long pause, in which Garret felt the need, stupidly, to hold his breath.

“I’m not sure that’s such a...good idea,” the older man said hesitantly, “I think you’d best be off home now.”

It was a crushing feeling, not exactly covered by disappointment. Garret felt the blush rise to his cheeks once more, only this time out of mortification rather than excitement. This was a mistake, he thought hurriedly, a mistake. It wasn’t only the embarrassment, the disappointment, but also the rubbishing of months of fantasising that was now quashed. It had all been enough just to look, just to watch from afar and imagine, that’s what he’d told himself. Why did I have to ruin it, he thought angrily, why do I always go after the things I can’t have? He nodded, unable to think of anything to say as he floundered, looking at anything but the man next to him. He turned back to the pail and quickly bent over to pick up his shirt, angry and ashamed.

“Wait, Garret I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” he heard Vincent say, sounding genuinely remorseful; Garret felt the hand on his shoulder as he stood and turned too quickly.

He only tripped, catching one foot on the other, but Vincent had reached out to steady him nonetheless, a large hand on either side of his slim hips. His breath caught in his throat and he instinctively put out his arms and grabbed the other man’s shoulders to stop himself from falling. He looked up quickly, finding them closer than he had realised. He could feel the calluses on the man’s fingers as they grasped his sweat slick flesh, could see that intensity once more in his eyes. He drew in quick breaths and watched, with an excited and yet scared inhalation of breath as Vincent Farthern, in one quick motion, walked him two steps backwards, pushed him tight up against a hay bale and kissed him.

His knees weakened, forcing him to grip tighter to the man’s shoulders. He could feel himself shaking, wincing as the split in his lip reopened, stinging badly, but didn’t dare to break the kiss. Maker’s breath, he thought giddily, revelling in the rush of euphoria as Vincent pushed his tongue into his mouth, claiming the virgin territory. He scrunched up the material of the shirt within his grasp, letting out a sinful moan as Vincent Farthern, the gentle and calm mentor figure, shoved his leg roughly between Garret’s thighs and began slowly rubbing his leg against the incredible hard heat between the younger man’s legs. He couldn’t stop the whine that escaped him, breaking the kiss in order to gasp in air, his eyes screwed shut, letting his head fall back against the hay. It was as the hand descended along his slick back, not stopping as it came to his trousers, that he cracked open his eyes and watched Vincent through a half lidded stare as the man slid his hand down inside his smalls and caressed the toned flesh of his buttocks. He swallowed and pulled in a jerky breath.

“By the Maker, you’re beautiful Garret Hawke,” the man said as if he hadn’t even meant for Garret to hear it, before swooping back in and resuming the searing kiss, all the while groping his way around inside his clothes and grinding his leg up in between Garret’s thighs.

He had wanted it to last forever, the heat and stickiness and the feeling of the man he had been lusting after with his eyes alone actually touching him, caressing him, the heat and ecstasy building in his cock, his cries swallowed by an eager tongue as he too ground down against the solid leg beneath him, his eyes tightly shut. Yet it was destined to end too early. He came with a stuttering breath, breaking the kiss and pushing his face against Vincent’s shoulder, mumbling out something incoherent as he jerked against the man who held him tightly against his muscled chest. The breath returned to his lungs and the blood rushed back to his head as he stood there, boneless against Vincent as the man kissed at his neck tenderly and ran his hands up across his back. Garret didn’t want to move, he wanted to stay like this, just for a little while. He was indulged but only for a few moments, before Vincent moved his leg back down and pulled back a little ways from Garret, enough to look down into his glazed eyes.

“Well,” the man said, his cheeks red with exertion and his eyes bright, “I...well, that was probably a bad idea.”

Don’t, Garret thought desperately, don’t say that. He leaned up and kissed the man strongly, hearing Vincent’s sound of surprise but ignoring it. The arms that encircled him once more were encouraging and Garret deepened the kiss, trying to get that feeling back. Don’t make me let go of this, don’t say it was nothing but a juvenile dream, Garret thought desperately, nothing different than Seamus and Grant and their lewd jokes, nothing more than just _lust_. Of course, as he moved against the other man, it was difficult to ignore the reciprocating hardness against his hip.

Everything became a little awkward and jumbled in his mind. He swallowed. I should, he thought nervously, he did it for me so...I should too, shouldn’t I? Just as he thought it he felt hands on his rear, groping roughly through the coarse material of his trousers, and lifting him up from the ground. Garret let out a sound of surprise and instinctively wrapped his legs around the man in front of him, only settling when Vincent deposited him onto the hay bale behind him. He broke the kiss and slowly but surely, pushed Garret down until he was lying flat against the hay, the spiky, stray strands digging into his back. He looked up into the lustful eyes of the man above him, blushing as Vincent began wriggling Garret’s trousers down past his hips and up over his thighs.

“Wait,” he said instinctively, feeling the embarrassment creeping back in as he realised he was almost naked, trying to reach from his trousers, “I...”

“It’s alright,” Vincent leaned down and kissed him once more, lowering down to grind against his body and his already spent cock; Garret groaned, shivering in the heat, and tried to remember why he had been so hesitant a moment before, “just relax.”

It was euphoric and frightening simultaneously, to have his body pressed down against the hay, shaking with need and an instinctual want to escape. Vincent didn’t seem to notice, Hawke thought. I should say something, his mind kept telling him over and over again, _say_ something. Yet it was useless. Vincent reached down between their bodies and ran his fingers over Garret’s flaccid shaft, making the boy stutter out a breath and jerk involuntarily.

“Steady there,” Vincent said, Hawke watching him, rapt, as he reached down with the cum on his fingers and rubbed it lazily along his exposed erection; Garret gazed down at it and licked his lips before looking back up into Vincent’s eyes, “it’ll feel better, I promise.”

“I haven’t...haven’t ever...” Garrret began.

“I know,” Vincent interrupted, bringing his other hand up to run his fingers over Garret’s lips, making the boy tremble, “don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

Never had anyone said such words to him right before causing him such intense pain. Vincent had tried his best to prepare him, as far as Garret had been aware of what the man did with nothing but his fingers and spit, but it was still agonising. Vincent’s body pressed him down against the hay as he moved, back and forth, slow and smooth, while Garret tried his best to bite down on the cries of distress. It was a bizarre feeling, to have something inside of you, _moving_ , something so large and hot. He wanted it out of him, he wanted it _out_ , and yet Vincent’s moans were those of pleasure and the words he spoke told Garret everything he needed to know.

“Yes, dammit _yes_ ,” Farthern muttered out, “so darn good, just like I always thought. _Ah_ , yes, like that, move like that boy, that’s it.”

 _-Just like I always thought_ -. The words made Garret’s heart beat a little faster. All this time he had believed he had been the one lusting after Vincent, when truly the other man had reciprocated his feelings. Garret had borne the pain under the promise that those words gave to him. He pushed back against the hard, slapping thrusts that Vincent drove into him, revelling in the grunts of pleasure that he pulled from the man. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, Vincent leaned forwards and changed his angle, thrusting down into Hawke and hitting _something_ , something which made Hawke’s eyes open wide and his insides sing.

“AH!” he cried out without thinking; he found a large, sweaty hand clamped over his mouth for his troubles and Vincent’s wide eyes staring down at him.

“Quiet!” Vincent said, not stopping his thrusts, “Not so loud, you want everyone to hear what I’m doing to you?”

Garret would have answered but he was too far gone. The ecstasy that was spiking up his spine was enough to make the pain worth it. He pushed back against every thrust eagerly, trying hard to gain at least a little purchase and feel that exquisite pleasure again. By the end they were bucking wildly against each other, both struggling to suppress their moans and grunts of pleasure and pain. Hawke came again, the thick fluid lubricating their bodies as Vincent continued to plough into him.

“Fucking _yes_ , yes you beautiful boy,” Vincent was ranting through his teeth, “ _take_ me, take me _deeper_ , yes! Yes! Ah..!”

Hawke squirmed weakly as Vincent drove his entire length deep inside and filled him. It was a grotesque and yet exquisite feeling, the heavy spasms of Vincent’s abdomen accompanied by the bizarre feeling of fluid being forced up into his body again and again. Hawke shook, even after Vincent pulled out, staring up at the barn ceiling, naked and sweating and covered in unsavoury release. He lay there for what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, basking in the afterglow and wondering, vaguely, how this had all happened so very quickly.

“You’d best get up,” Vincent’s voice finally roused him; Hawke looked over and found Vincent standing next to him, his hand outstretched. Hawke took it and was pulled up gently, yet he could not stop the cry of agony he let out as he sat up, “shh! Hey now, not so loud. Are you...are you alright lad?”

“I’m fine,” Hawke lied, clamping down on the hot pain which was lancing from his rear all the way up his spine, every time he moved, “I...I’m alright.”

He received a kiss for his obvious lie. Hawke leaned into the embrace, half sitting on the hay bale, naked as the day he was born, while Vincent stood beside him and ravished his mouth. Hawke’s hands slid around the taller man’s back and he relished the slick feeling of his mouth being plundered by an experienced tongue. Vincent’s hands wondered up and down his naked flesh, groping his sides and his buttocks. Hawke let out whimpering sounds of need into the kiss whenever Vincent manhandled him. He had already suffered so much pleasure that the tease of more seemed almost unbearable.

“You are one frisky little thing,” Vincent said after eventually breaking the kiss, smiling slyly as he stared into Hawke’s eyes, “never would of thought you were sweet on me too. All the things I’ve dreamed of doing to you...this seems like a dream itself.”

“Tell me it’s not a dream,” Hawke said, slowing his breathing, “I’ve had enough of those.”

“It ain’t a dream, lad,” Vincent smiled more kindly, leaning in to place a chaste kiss on his cheek, “and if I have my way there’ll be plenty more opportunities for me to prove it to you.”

Hawke shivered in anticipation at the thought.

* * *

 

“Out late again, son?”

It wasn’t entirely guilt that made him start, more the threat of being discovered. Sometimes the two emotions bled together but, as Garret turned to look into his father’s kind yet stern eyes, he hoped he could keep them apart. He’d managed to keep this all to himself for three weeks now, but he sometimes felt that if he began feeling guilty enough he might just crack and tell his father everything. Garret hated to think what Malcom Hawke would do to Vincent if he ever found out. So he plastered on a smile and said:

“Yes dad.”

“You better not be fooling around with that girl,” Malcolm said, the kindness leaving his eyes as he looked up at his son from the scroll in his lap; the unlit blackened hearth seemed cold despite the summer heat and the room was gloomy but for the candles on the side tables, “if you do anything stupid Vincent isn’t going to forgive me for it just because we’re friends now. I taught you better than that.”

“I’m not!” Garret said, heartfelt, glad that at least this time he wasn’t lying, “honestly dad, I promise I wasn’t. I just...I was just dealing with some business.”

He wished he had picked his words better, maybe said he was out with Grant and Seamus causing trouble, _anything_ but the word ‘business’. The word had come out without him thinking about it, just trying his best to end the conversation before it started. Garret turned to try and leave but stopped when his father stood from his chair by the fireplace and stopped him with one word. Garret could hear his mother talking to Bethany and Carver in the Kitchen, telling them not to run around under her feet as the two squealed and shouted as they played. He hoped that he and his father wouldn’t be heard over the racket the twins were causing.

“Business?” his father’s cultured voice was hard and curious, “What is that supposed to mean? You better not have been starting any trouble, lad.”

“I wasn’t,” Garret tried to reaffirm, turning back to his father, “I was just busy, is all.”

“That tells me nothing, Garret,” Malcolm walked towards his son and put his hands on his hips, a sign he wasn’t in the mood for any nonsense, “come now, don’t lie to me.”

“I ain’t lying, dad,” Garret said in annoyance finally managing to get himself flustered, pulling up his shirt sleeves as he always did, ready to wash up before dinner, “I’m telling you I was just...”

He wasn’t allowed to get any further, not because he was interrupted but, instead, because he knew he had slipped up. Hawke followed his father’s outraged stare and looked down at his own exposed wrists, finding the rings of purpling bruises on each. The sight sent a thrill of excitement and fear through him. Garret looked up to his father and swallowed.

“I ask you one thing, Garret,” his father said in a low voice, his anger evident, “ _one_ thing and you can’t even give me that!”

“Dad, please, I can explain..!” Garret started, his mouth going dry.

“You don’t lie to me, that’s all I ask,” his father said harshly, “and what are you doing right now? I told you not to get into any fights either and look what you’ve done. Was it that Jareth Hornsby again? I’ve told you...”

“You’ve told me?” Garret shot back, the older man starting in surprise; Garret never crossed his father, always deferring to him respectfully, yet in the heat of the moment and out of fear of the truth coming out, Garret panicked, “And what good’ll that do us when the templars coming barging in the door, all cause of some fool who hates me cause the girl he likes is sweet on me? You think I’m going to stand there and let him jeopardise my whole family just because he’s _jealous_? He keeps talking of you like you’re a freak that needs locking up and I ain’t _standing_ for it! Why would you think that of me?”

He had expected to be shouted at until his father turned blue in the face. What Garret got instead was a rather shocked look from his father, followed by his features softening, his eyes dropping and a long sigh emerging from his throat. Malcolm looked back up to his son with a shake of his head and yet the hard look had disappeared from his eyes.

“Garret...look lad, sit down will you?”

They sat across from each other, Malcolm taking Hawke’s hands in his own and gently letting out a warm green glow. Garret couldn’t help but close his eyes and sigh in relief as the burning ache in his wrists diminished and the strain in his muscles lessened. They did not talk again until his father was finished his treatment. His father’s magic always served to soothe him, no matter his temper or his sadness. There was a nostalgia there, something that reminded him of being young, before he understood any of the complications of growing up. Memories of bedtime stories with knights and mages and dragons. When Garret opened his eyes again he looked to his father and tried his best not to feel guilt stabbing at him. Malcolm let go of his son’s hands and looked him straight in the eye, making Garret feel as if he were a butterfly caught in a spider’s web.

“I know how you feel,” Malcolm said sincerely, his deep voice rough with cares and yet mature with experience, “and I know that it’s frustrating, not being able to do anything about it. It’s just the way it is though and you won’t make it any better by making enemies, son. I’m not going to say you’re right or wrong for fighting the Hornsby boy but I want you to think next time before you do it. Is it better to let them talk big and do nothing or to goad them into actually running to the Chantry? Sometimes it’s harder to do nothing but the reward can be greater.”

Garret stared at his father, hating that the words were probably right. How can you say that? he wanted to shout, How can you expect me not to protect my family? Yet it was emotion that drove him, he knew that, not sense. Even in avoiding the truth he was trying to hide, he had managed to strike on another bone of contention between himself and his father. His father’s cultured voice always seemed so very wise; Garret found it difficult to imagine Malcolm Hawke spouting anything less than wisdom and it made it rather conflicting to imagine disagreeing with him. That didn’t stop Garret of course but he would never say it out loud. His father was intelligent and proud, educated in magic, literature and philosophy, more than Garret could sometime imagine knowing despite avidly reading any books of his father’s that he could get his hands on. So, despite wanting nothing more than to disagree, Garret merely nodded and chewed the inside of his lip.

“Good lad, I don’t want to hear you’ve been out late fighting with Hornsby again, alright?” his father said warmly, patting his shoulder before clearing his throat, “Now get those bruises covered up, will you? If your mother sees them it’ll be me that gets the beating. And mind you finish that translation I gave to you yesterday, I don’t want you falling behind on your studies because you’re out scrapping.”

The smile Garret gave would have been genuine, if Vincent hadn’t said roughly the same thing a few weeks before; ‘ _Get those bruises covered up m’lad, or we’ll both be in a lot of trouble’._ The memory was as fresh as the ecstasy that accompanied it.Garret stood and rushed to his room, mumbling to his father that he was almost done with the translation anyway, before looking for the thick lamb’s wool jumper his mother had knitted him to wear over his shirt. It was as he was rooting around inside his clothes chest that a voice came from the doorway, high pitched and superior.

“You’ve been lying,” Carver said in a sing-song voice from the doorway, laughing nastily when his older brother turned round sharply to look at him. His younger brother may have been fourteen but Garret swore he still acted like a five year old most of the time. It grated on his nerves to no end.

“Shut your mouth, pipsqueak,” Garret said dryly as he shrugged into his jumper and pulled it down, hating the heavy warmth it brought but knowing it was necessary, “haven’t you got something to be breaking and getting scolded for?”

“Jareth Hornsby wasn’t even in the village tonight,” Carver continued, half in and half out of the door, ready to run when Garret inevitably went for him, “he left in the afternoon, Hares told me, he went over to Wright’s farm to clear out the spiders.”

“I told you to mind your own business,” Garret said sternly, trying his best to mimic his father.

“You weren’t fighting him,” Carver said, a sly smile on his face, “cause you were too busy at the barn, weren’t ya? Grant was saying to everyone that you’re always in there. What you doing in there anyway?”

His younger brother had obviously not expected him to move as fast as he did. One moment Garret was standing in the middle of the room, the next he had taken one step forwards and grabbed Carver by the scruff of his neck, hauling him into the room and closing the door. He clamped his hand over Carver’s mouth before the other boy could shout out for their mother and shoved him against the wall.

“Just you keep quiet, alright?” Garret tried to stop himself from sounding worried, tried to sound threatening, “I was...I was seeing Penny, alright?”, Did one lie really cancel another? His father would surely kill him for that as well, although perhaps not as much as he would for the truth, “You can’t tell dad or mum, you understand?”

“What’s in it for me?” Carver said petulantly, shoving his brother away when he managed to squirm free.

“Don’t be a little shit,” Garret narrowed his eyes, “how about I don’t tell mum where her favourite scarf got to.”

“That wasn’t my fault!” Carver said, his face contorting in anger, “That’s not fair!”

“Oh shut up,” Garret sighed, feeling generously like he’d dodged the proverbial arrow twice today already; he looked to Carver and disarmed the boy by smiling, “look, mum’s made spiced fruit cake for pudding, hasn’t she? You can have my bit, how’s that?”

“I’m not a stupid kid,” Carver’s sulked angrily; he looked at Garret expectantly and pointed to the rough, wooden chest Garret kept locked in the corner of his room, “Let me have the daggers, the ones dad gave you.”

“Not likely,” Garret said back, shaking his head, “for one, they're mine, and for another you’d probably only end up murdering yourself with them. Then mother would kill me.”

“I would not!” Carver retorted, “I’d be better than you! You can’t even fight the spiders on the farm without father having to heal you up!”

“Alright, alright, stop shouting,” Garret sighed harshly; he looked at his younger brother’s expectant face and, unusually, felt a pang of regret. Carver may have annoyed him to no end but there was something there in his face that Garret suddenly felt that he’d lost: an innocence, “look, how about this. I’ll show you how to use them, alright?”

“When?” Carver said quickly.

“Tomorrow,” Garret replied just as rashly, “I promise. And if I show you how to fight maybe dad will buy you some of your own, eh?”

“...Alright,” Carver said, still looking both put out and suspicious, “but you’d better or I’m telling.”

In the end it hadn’t taken much. Carver had looked put out but Garret’s placation seemed to have worked. He sent Carver off to wash his hands before dinner, leaving him in his room alone. It was gratifying to know he had wriggled his way out of that one, yet he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of being a little lost, a little empty. He swallowed and tried to remember that it was more than that, it was more than simply lust and stupidity. Reaching down with his right hand he squeezed his fingers around the sensitive, bruised flesh of his left wrist. He hissed in pain and pleasure, letting his mouth hang open and a hot breath escape as the memory of where he gained them came back in full force.

The rope, wound tightly around his wrists, creaked as it strained. Garret gasped as Vincent finished tying him down, his arms stretched up above his head, his back to the wooden pillar in the barn. Vincent stood back, as if to admire his handy work, before smiling.

“You might just be the most beautiful thing I ever saw,” he said, making Garret blush and look away; he felt the fingers on his sides, rough calluses scraping against the sensitive skin, “and you’re mine. Who’s are you?”

“I’m yours,” Garret said without hesitation, finally managing to look back into Vincent’s blue eyes.

“Good boy,” Vincent said, leaning in to kiss him with exquisite tenderness.

He had melted into the embrace, despite his fearful anticipation of what would happen next. Ever since their first union a few weeks before Vincent had seemed determined to try anything and everything to test Garret’s limits. It had scared him at first, and truthfully it still made him uncomfortable, yet it all seemed worth it when Vincent kissed him this way. He could stand the man’s ways if it allowed him to get close to him, see the love he was capable of. It was  as he acknowledged that, understood it for what it was, that he truly knew he loved the man, loved him for who he was, not what he did.

So he let Vincent lift his legs and push inside of him, biting down on his cries. He let Vincent ravish his mouth with both his tongue and his cock, pushing the hot length down inside of him until Garret gagged upon it. He allowed Vincent to force him to drink his release, cooing sweet words to him as Garret swallowed while Vincent filled his mouth and stroked his hair.

In the end the kiss was always sweet.

* * *

 

“Not like that Beth!” he laughed, watching affectionately as his sister’s face wrinkled up, “Here, do it like this.”

Garret adjusted the quill in her small hands, watching as the ink quivered inside the feather, threatening to drip, and merely smiled when she sighed and batted him away. He was only doing it to annoy her anyway, something to kill the time while his mother got herself ready to go into town to the market. She always asked him to go with her to carry anything heavy she might need. The thought of routing around the dirty stalls made him grimace, even as he pestered his sister as she wrote.

“Don’t Garret!” she said, peeved, “I haven’t got much scroll left, father said he’d get me more at the end of the month but only if he can find it.”

“It’s called parchment, dummy,” Garret said with a shake of his head, “not scroll.”

“I know, I just...” Bethany sighed again, sounding impressively like their mother Garret thought, “why don’t you go do something else?”

“Because there ain’t nothing to do,” Garret said lazily.

“It’s ‘is not’,” Bethany said primly, sounding far too pleased with herself, “not ain’t.”

“Oh, is that so,” Garret said, waiting until his sister began writing before tipping her elbow, causing a heavy, black blob of ink to well from the quill and soak into the parchment.

He stood up and left the room quickly to sounds of “Mama! Mama, Garret ruined my letters! I can’t stand it!”. It wasn’t long until his mother appeared around the end of the short hallway, looking at him sternly. He shrugged and smiled disarmingly, making his mother sigh and shake her head, much as Bethany did.

“Honestly Garret,” she said, “let’s get you out of here before you cause any more trouble.”

The market was as dull as ever, as far as Garret was concerned. A meagre stock, with meagre sellers under a dull sky and over dull mud. He kicked at the ground as his mother picked through the things she could not afford and tried her best to look the lady among all the other women. Garret wished she wouldn’t. There was nothing worse for him than watching his mother try and remain prestigious in her patched clothes, sporting the few nice things she still owned, her silver hairpin and the ring father had given her when they had eloped; silver and emerald. The only thing worse was hearing the other gossiping women as they derided her for being superior, high and mighty, too good for any of them, or so she thought. His mother pretended not to hear it, simply smiling demurely at the silk merchant as she told him that she wouldn’t require anything this month. Not that she ever bought anything from him at all. Garret bit his tongue and kept his peace, trying to follow his mother’s example and failing as he felt eyes on them and heard the muted whispers as they passed.

He hated shopping at the market. When he looked up on hearing a familiar, high pitched voice calling his name he couldn’t help feeling a little ill at ease on seeing Penny and her father walking towards them.

“Oh hello, Mrs. Hawke, Garret,” Penny said, smiling genuinely; he didn’t miss the shy waver when she said his name, making him sigh, “how are you today? Oh! I love that pin, it’s so elegant!”

“Why thank you Penny, dear,” his mother said, smiling as she touched her hairpin; Garret shifted on his feet and ignored Penny’s glances, even as he flicked those glances at Vincent. The man seemed to be doing a good job of acting completely normal, “I’m very well. Out for a few things, are we?”

“Yes, father said he’d buy me some new material for Muriel to make a new dress for me,” Penny said, sounding a little scolding, “but he’s trying to get out of it.”

“Now Vincent, it’s not wise to disappoint a lady,” his mother laughed politely as she addressed the tall man.

“Of which I’m well aware,” Vincent chuckled, “you’re looking well Leandra. Tabatha asked Verman Cole to wring her one of his best geese, we’re going to pick it up from him when his cart comes in. You, Malcolm and the children should come round tomorrow and join us. If I know my wife it’s going to be a feast!”

“That sounds wonderful,” his mother said, keeping up the polite air; Garret cleared his throat and tried his best to keep his eyes on his feet when he realised that Penny was pretty much blatantly staring at him now, “I’ll tell Malcolm, he’ll be delighted. He always is soft for goose, and I’ll bake some spiced plum cake. The tree is laden in the garden, they’ll just go to waste otherwise.”

“Excellent!” Vincent said, “we’ll see you tomorrow then. I certainly look forward to that cake, Leandra. Don’t let Tabatha hear about me saying this, but your baking is the best in Lothering.”

“Oh you do have a silver tongue don’t you!” Leandra said, waving him away with a demure smile.

“Bye Garret,” Penny said as her father ushered her forward as they walked past.

“Goodbye,” Garret mumbled out, looking away awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

At least that’s over with, he thought, letting the tension leave his shoulders. Or at least until, a few minutes later, he felt a hand around his wrist and a quick jerk pulled him backwards into the small lane leading to the tangle of buildings by the bridge. His mother had been a little ways ahead of him as he dragged his feet and he watched as she continued browsing generally, unaware of his sudden disappearance. Garret hadn’t let out a yell of surprise only because he recognised the voice in his ear that spoke in the resonant tone that sent a shiver of pleasure up his spine.

“Tabatha’s taking Penny over to the Anita Baker’s tonight, they’re making a night of it preparing for the meal tomorrow, won’t be back,” Vincent’s arms were wrapped around him, holding Garret’s back against his strong chest; the thrill of where they were, even concealed between the two houses, obscured from view, was enough to make Garret’s heart race, “Come over after sundown.”

“I can’t,” Garret gasped as Vincent roughly spun him round, making it all the harder to ignore his arousal, “father asked me to help him with...”

“Never mind that,” Vincent interrupted, sliding his hands down over Garret’s arse and smiling as he shivered, “you’re a clever lad. You’ll come up with something, eh?”

“I suppose,” Garret said, eyes wide as Vincent leaned in to claim his mouth in a passionate kiss; Garret looked around wildly as the older man leaned back, his heart hammering in his chest as he searched for anyone who may be watching, “not out here!”

“Then come to the farm tonight lad,” Vincent said, leaning in once more in order to speak directly into Garret’s ear, making the blood rush from his face straight to his groin, “and I’ll promise you a nice soft bed beneath your back this time.”

Then he was gone, leaving Garret leaning against the rough wall for support. It was difficult to ignore the blush on his cheeks, trying his best to wish it away. Even harder to ignore the heat between his legs. He shifted his feet vainly and took a deep breath. Maker, why does he affect me so? Garret thought giddily. He’s a reckless arse, he thought with an affectionate smile, but he does it for you, doesn’t he? Cause he cares about you. The thought made the heat change to a settled warmth. Garret couldn’t help the silly smile on his face as he rushed out to catch up to his mother, finding her wondering around looking for him. He took her scolding good naturedly, using his charm to keep her distracted and helping her cart home the bags of flour from the miller.

“You better not have been running off to see Penny,” his mother said, only seeming to mimic her stern attitude, “you should court a lady properly, not be having clandestine affairs.”

“Would I do such a thing, mother?” Garret said with a smile and a good natured frown, “Anyway, she’s too innocent to know about all that.”

“And I don’t like the implication that you’re not, Garret,” his mother said, her affront seeming rather genuine.

“Oh, come on now, what would I know about that?” he said with a wink, making his mother gasp and sputter, lecturing him the whole way home.

He didn’t mind. He looked up at the bright patch in the clouds, waiting patiently for the sun to travel down and dip below the mountains.

* * *

 

It had been a simple thing to come up with the lie, only it didn’t make him feel any the less guilty for saying it. His father had looked disappointed in him but, after Garret had feigned being ill, his father, ever the healer, had given in and become too concerned to give his son grief.

“You’re in no state to help me with this translation tonight,” his father said, pressing the back of his hand to his son’s forehead; Garret was sure that it was hot to the touch. He had perfected being able to blush on command, after all he merely had to think of Vincent Farthern to make it happen, “come on, let’s get you to bed. I’ll make you a remedy, alright?”

His father’s concern had only made it worse. His father had always been proud of Garret’s accomplishments, whether physical or mental, and he had been determined from the day he was born, if his mother was to be believed, to make sure his son got a good education. There was a local school run by the Chantry, which taught the rudiments of the religious doctrine, but Malcolm hadn’t been content with such paltry teachings. As such Garret Hawke and his siblings were some of the few people in Lothering, along with their parents, who could not only read and write but do mathematics, alchemy, chemistry and, in Garret’s case, read Orlesian and even translate runes. Garret loved his father for his intense nature and his teachings, always hungry for new knowledge whether it was books from the Chantry library or his father’s own private collection.

Yet, he would admit it was only another bone of contention between himself and his peers. Other than Seamus and Grant, who seemed content simply to be his friends, others looked upon his abilities as above his station, making him appear aloof. Garret had never cared, only sometimes feeling ostracised by his education, yet when he was helping his father with translations or potion making his resentment was always fleeting.

Currently they were working on a book which his father had acquired, from where he never told Garret, written in an odd mix of Orlesian text, very old Orlesian at that, and strange runes, most of which Garret hadn’t recognised when they started. It was actually a bit galling, only on a minor scale he felt, that he would be missing out on translating it with his father that night. Yet Vincent’s promise was still hot in his memory, still enough to have him forget his duties.

Of course when his mother found out about his ‘illness’ she had, well, mothered him. It had taken his father’s assurance that he wasn’t dying to have her finally leave him alone. He lay in the bed, waiting until he heard them move away. The twins were already asleep, as far as he knew, and Garret waited until he knew they would have moved into the living room as they always did of an evening. Garret lay there, watching the window, unable to think of anything beyond the darkening sky. _Come over after sundown_ , he’d said. The memory of that rough voice in his ear had Garret trailing his hand down under the covers, tentatively touching himself through his night clothes. He licked his lips but managed to resist going too far. He wanted to save himself for that night, wanted everything to lead to that one moment.

Once it was dark he slipped out of bed, quiet as a cat, and dressed himself properly. It was easy to slip out through the small window in his room, flexible as he was, and he closed it quietly. Garret Hawke had always prided himself in being as stealthy as any rogue his father had told him about in his tales. Now, more than ever, it had a very practical purpose. It would have been difficult to track his way across the farmstead, down to the river, up and over Beacon hill and down into the small valley where Vincent’s farm lay, but Garret _also_ prided himself on his sense of direction. The full moon also helped quite a bit, staining the landscape with a silver glow. On reaching the top of the Beacons the lights down in the valley became obvious, highlighting the windows of the large farm house. Garret watched his footing carefully as he wound down through the brush, scratchy dry heather scraping at his ankles and rocks moving unsettlingly beneath his feet. By the time he reached the front door of the Farthern home he was a little weary despite his excitement.

“You came,” Vincent was smiling when he opened the door, seeming overly pleased with himself.

“Next time could we maybe do this in the daytime?” Garret said, trying to sound put out but losing his edge as he was drawn inside by a strong hand on his arm, “My ankles are bloody ruined.”

“Good thing you won’t have to be on your feet for very long then, eh?” Vincent teased as he closed and locked the door; Garret batted him on the arm but was smiling as he was drawn in for a kiss.

The Farthern home was a pleasant place, more so than his own Garret thought. The curtains were thick cotton lined with heavy stitch wool, the furniture was rustic but well crafted, the wooden table carved with wonderful curls into the legs and varnished to a darker pine. Their tea set was china, not the uneven pottery of their own, their lamps were set with glass instead of left naked flames, the smell was of the roses in the garden outside and the baked bread Tabatha must have been making earlier and, as he found out quite quickly, their beds were dressed in smooth cotton, soft to the touch, unlike the rough bedclothes he had at home.

Garret sighed contentedly as he was pushed down against the soft blankets, opening his mouth and allowing the older man atop him to kiss him with a lazy passion. The bedroom smelt of the violets growing under the window, open just enough to allow a pleasant airiness in the warm room. It was as he lay there, looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling, and around at the unfamiliar room, that the consequences of his actions seemed to slowly sink in past the blindness of the affection he held for Vincent. Garret swallowed as the older man opened his shirt, exposing Garret’s toned chest.

“Should we really be here?” Garret asked quietly, feeling stupid somehow as Vincent frowned, “I mean...I just mean your wife, she...”

“Oh now, don’t you be worrying your pretty little head about that,” Vincent said with a smile, “this has nothing to do with that at all.”

“But...” Garret paused in order to gasp as Vincent unbuttoned his trousers and took hold of him; it was embarrassing to talk when someone was manipulating him in such a lewd fashion, but he tried his best, “it’s only that she might find out, mightn’t she?”

“She ain’t going to find out Garret, m’lad,” Vincent said soothingly as he continued to stroke him to hardness.

“But if she did,” Garret couldn’t help himself as the words tumbled out and the feeling of fear at the thought crept up on him, “I mean, where would we go? We’d have to leave and...”

 “Shh,” Vincent said, looking a little peeved at Garret’s insistent talking, “come now, no one’s leaving their families, alright? You wouldn’t want that, would you now, and neither do I.”

It shut him up, although not perhaps in the way Vincent hoped it would. Garret felt himself laying back against the bed on instinct as the older man pulled his open trousers down over his slim hips, exposing Garret’s straining erection. He turned over obediently when the man urged him, gasped as he was prepared, gritted his teeth and groaned as he was entered roughly. Yet, as they moved together, the small room filled with their moans and muffled cries, Garret knew that something was wavering inside of him.

 _‘No one’s leaving’_. Of course he didn’t want to leave, of course he would miss his family but...but he would if it were Vincent asking him. Vincent being by him, looking after him, loving him. He thought he could have lived with that, or at least he had thought it. The man’s words only minutes before had shaken that trust. Garret didn’t want to question the other man’s love. This isn’t just lust, Garret told himself over and over, it can’t be just like everyone else.

Perhaps if he had been paying more attention he would have heard the door open. Perhaps if he’d not been preoccupied with his worries he would have heard the surprisingly soft footsteps walking into the room. It didn’t take much of his attention to notice when Vincent, who had been essentially moulded over his back and pressing him down onto the bed, let out a choked sound of surprise and was suddenly gone from inside him. Garret, flustered and only half aware, turned over quickly and could only stare in shock.

No, he thought. No that can’t be...this isn’t real. His heart was hammering in his chest so loudly he was surprised everyone couldn’t hear it, as he hurriedly and ashamedly pulled his trousers back up. I’m...I’m dreaming, a nightmare, this can’t...

“Get up,” his father stood there at the foot of the bed, seeming insanely out of place in the small petite bedroom, staring down at an equally shocked Vincent who was scrabbling on the floor to try and cover himself, “I said _get up_!”

He had seen it a thousand times, maybe even thousands, he would never have been able to count. In the privacy of their home his father practiced his magic, always considered, always calm and with purpose. When he was young, as early a memory as Garret was sure he could have, he remembered his father summoning butterflies to dance in the air before him, could always hold on to the memory of his small, chubby fingers trying to grab at the delicate creatures, his hands meeting only the smoky air of the illusion.

Never in anger, never like this. His father was a kind man, he would never use his magic out of rage, that’s what Garret had always believed. Yet when Malcolm Hawke hauled Vincent Farthern from the floor with nothing but the strength of his own will and flung him across the room into the far wall, Garret was very quickly ordered to rethink his priorities.

“How dare you, you bastard, how _dare_ you!” his father didn’t shout, yet his face was severe and his eyes livid, seeming to dance with an inner fire as he strode towards Vincent, coughing and hacking upon the floor, “I let you into my house, I let you near my son, and you use him for your perversion, you dare to touch him!”

“Father, no!” Garret panicked, scrambling from the bed as Malcolm stood over the prone man, seeming like an avenging knight from the stories, over a cowering victim.

“Stay where you are,” each word held the force of an anger so strong it was barely contained within his voice; Garret stopped on instinct more than he wanted to stop as his father spoke, looking over his shoulder at his son, “this is my judgement to give out.”

“Malcolm please,” Vincent finally managed to choke out as he got his breath back, his voice disturbingly pleading, “I didn’t mean any harm. He’s a man, he made his own decision, I didn’t force him..!”

“Be quiet, you wretch!” his father finally roared, raising his voice as he raised his hands, crossed his palms and let a soft and yet sickly yellow light emerge from his being.

It was instantaneous. Vincent had been worried before, pleading and wretched, but not terrified. Not as he was now as his eyes bugged open and his mouth hung loose, letting out a horrified whimper as he tried his best to slowly crawl away from the man standing before him. Garret couldn’t understand it, there was nothing to be so afraid of except his father and, even then, how could a mage appear so gruesome?

“What have you done?” Garret asked, shocked, unable to stop himself from rushing forwards and trying his best to pull Vincent to him; even under the shock and the shame and the revelations Garret knew he still foolishly loved the man, no matter what he did, “Father stop it, please!”

“He deserves this fear,” his father spoke as if to himself, sounding strict and yet resigned, “get away from him Garret.”

“I won’t!” Garret shot back, looking up at his father defiantly even as the very action made him shake with worry and shame, “I can’t, father, I love him! Please, I won’t let you..!”

“I told you not to lie to me, son,” his father’s voice was suddenly so normal that it made Garret feel ill at ease, confused.

It was with surprising ease that his father reached down and managed to pull Garret away from the still whimpering Vincent. He felt as if all the will had been drained from his body, all the fight and the fear. Garret allowed his father to pull him up and sit him onto the bed, staring blankly down at the man by his feet.

“I trusted you,” he heard his father say, his voice an odd mix of fury and sadness, “and this is how it ends. I should have known better, you would think I would after all these years. Your falsity becomes you, and it shall consume you.”

The words of a spell. Even as he was in his confused state, slumped against the bedstead, Garret could recognise the pattern. He felt the tears slipping from his eyes but was unsure why he was even crying, as Malcolm Hawke bent down and placed his hand against Vincent’s bare arm. There was a soft hiss, as of the wind in the trees or a snake hidden under a rock; when the hand was pulled back a small, black mark was left, a complicated knot of spiked strands forming a symbol Garret did not recognise. It was then that whatever spell his father had cast on Vincent seemed to dissipate, leaving the man free of his crippling fear but still weak.

“What...what have you done to me?” he wheezed out, looking up at Malcolm Hawke; the mage now looked surprisingly calm and even, to Garret’s eyes, somewhat tired.

“You shall not know,” Malcolm said, hunching down to stare into Vincent’s eyes, making the other man shy away, “because I shall not tell you. Only know this, if you go near him, if you touch him, look at him, merely _speak_ of my son, I will know. I will know Vincent and I will let the hex do its work. Do we understand each other?”

“What? What is that?” Vincent said in a warbled tone, looking down at his arm and trying to scratch at the black mark there, wincing as his nails scraped over the flesh and yet not giving up on trying desperately to remove it, “What’ve you done to me, you monster!”

“There is only one monster in this room,” Malcolm said as he once more stood, using the bedpost to steady himself, “you have been warned and you know what I am capable of. Do not test me unless you wish to face a fate worse than the death I should have bestowed upon you.”

* * *

 

He barely remembered the walk home, other than it felt as if it were never ending. The moonlight was dulled but his father lit the way, as subtly as he could, making the ground glow with a small scurrying orb which ran in and out of their feet like an excited puppy. His mother was the only one awake when they returned. The sight made Garret’s heart wrench painfully. No, he thought, she can’t know, she _can’t_. Please, someone make this stop!

Yet as his mother ran to him and hugged him tightly Garret was thrown, feeling as if he knew nothing anymore. She babbled a little hysterically, asking him where he had been, what had happened, and why he looked so awful. She was only stopped by his father’s stern words.

“Leave us be, Leandra,” he said in such a tone as even his mother did not question it, “I will tell you after. First I must speak to Garret alone.”

The room was empty but for them. Garret stared at the armchair by the fire as if he couldn’t bear to look anywhere else. He heard the telltale sound of his father lighting the fire with a quick burst of flame and watched detachedly as the warm tendrils of light filtered out over the area, brightening quickly. Footsteps approached but Garret could not look up. There was silence only so long as either of them could stand it.

“Look at me boy,” his father said, his voice unyielding.

Garret swallowed. Slowly he moved his eyes from the familiar chair to the dancing, brown eyes of his father. The man stared at him, unwavering, until Garret felt that he could no longer stand it. He opened his mouth, desperate to tell him that he was sorry, but a sharp slap to his left cheek left him speechless. His father had never struck him, not once in his seventeen years on this earth. The action left him feeling ill.

“I will not have any more lies from you,” his father growled, his voice filled with emotion, “I will not have you demean yourself further! How could you, how could you _let_...”

He didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence, instead leaving the threat of it hanging in the air. Garret held his stinging, throbbing face and stared at the fire, trying his best to not look at his father, no matter the cost. He heard the man walking to and fro, saw his shadow against the wall. He wanted to speak, to defend himself, but was scared of the consequences. It was a new and hideous feeling. He had never been scared of his father, not once in his entire life. He had been worried by him, he knew when to be cowed by him, but there was never fear. Yet, since seeing Vincent Farthern whimpering on the ground like a terrified child, Garret wasn’t sure what to think.

“I thought you were cleverer than this, Garret,” his father was saying stiffly as he paced, “I thought I’d taught you to understand manipulation and yet you fall for it, and so blatantly! That man was just using you, you understand that don’t you? I’ve seen it before, I’ve seen it more often than you would probably believe! It’s just another trick, Garret, the templars would use it on unsuspecting apprentices and they would get away with it! You understand me, don’t you? You understand that none of this was real.”

“Then who did I love?” he replied without thinking, his voice almost too soft to be heard.

As soon as he realised what he had said he had expected another blow, another rage, something terrifying and unexpected. What happened instead only made everything more uncertain. His father’s hands took him by the shoulders and he stood before his son, staring at him until Garret was forced to stare back.

“Son, it’s only love if the other person loves you back,” his father’s tone was heavy with grief and anxiety, “he didn’t love you, he was _using_ you. You know that I don’t care, don’t you? I don’t care who you love Garret, I just want you to be safe, to be happy. Don’t tell me that this is what you think love is, I don’t think I could stand it.”

“But I...I don’t...” Garret wasn’t even sure what he was trying to argue; he had known it himself, somewhere deep down, and yet he had ignored it. Even after Vincent’s unknown confession earlier that night which had Garret questioning his love seemed like an obvious notion now, “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_.”

In truth he wasn’t even sure who he was apologising to. His father, Vincent, his family, himself? Everything had gone so horribly wrong, that’s what he had thought, that everything had been ruined by their discovery. Yet he knew that, in truth, everything had been wrong long before that. You thought it was something else, didn’t you? he thought, You tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t just lust, that it was different, that it was love. Only you don’t even know what that is, do you? You can’t even tell the two apart.

“Don’t think that fixes everything,” his father said, letting go of his son’s shoulders and stepping away, running a hand through his brown hair, “you lied to me, to all of us. I wouldn’t have expected you to tell me anything about any of this Garret but, for the Maker’s sake, you don’t know the consequences of what you’ve done. What could have happened. You could have torn both our families apart, you could have caused more harm than you know. We have a home here, son, a _home_. For us that’s one of the most difficult things to have, you know that. Only the other day you were telling me how much you want to protect your family and yet you jeopardise us all for your own desires.”

“I wouldn’t have done that!” Garret spoke up, distraught as he looked pleadingly to his father, “I never would have put you at risk!”

“You already have!” his father shot back, making his son recoil from his anger, “Don’t you see that Vincent,” the amount of vitriol his father put into the name was enough to make Garret swallow with fear, “he could have used my being an apostate against us? That he could have used you even if you hadn’t wanted it, just blackmailing you. Maybe you didn’t even know he was doing it!”

“Father,” Garret knew it was unwise to interrupt but he couldn’t stay silent, “that’s not true. I...he didn’t force me. I wanted...”

“Quiet boy,” his father said sternly and yet with heavy resignation, “I can’t hear this now. Just...be quiet.”

“But dad,” he continued, making Malcolm sigh tersely; yet Garret was feeling everything, remembering the fear in that small bedroom, that terrible magic spilling all around him, “what did you do? I mean, that magic, I’ve never seen you use it before. It was horrible, it felt wrong!”

“There are some spells that are only used in dire circumstances,” Malcolm said sagely, “and I do not relish it. I am bound to the laws of Creation, but it does not mean I am restricted to it. The laws of Entropy are also open to me, even if it pains me to use them. That man was worthy of a far worse punishment than the one I left him with, believe me.”

“You said you would kill him!” Garret said in a panic, “You wouldn’t do that, would you? You can’t!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Garret!” his father said in reply, sounding put out, “It was only a death hex,” Malcolm hurried to explain when his son looked at him, outraged, “no, no, it doesn’t kill, only bestows bad luck upon the bearer. Which is far less than that vile bastard deserves. I won’t say that revenge is right, Garret, but sometimes people need to learn that there are consequences. I have to protect you, protect Beth and Carver and your mother. My family is what’s important, _you_ are what’s important to me. I won’t let some trickster come in and use you, take you from us, not while I’m still breathing.”

This time Garret knew why the tears came. He felt them rather than knew consciously that he wept. He shook his head. Such a fool, you’re such a _fool_! How could you do this, how could you put them all at risk for your own lust, your own vanity? You’re a fool and a selfish wretch. Even as his father stepped forwards, shaking his head as he gathered his son into his arms, he could take no solace from the action even as he desperately returned the embrace.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” he said, trying to hold back his grief and failing.

“I know son, I know,” his father was saying, yet he could hear the resignation in his tone.

“What..what’ll you tell mother?” he asked, trying to stop his tears from flowing, wiping fitfully at his cheeks as his father pulled back.

“I’ll think of something,” his father sighed, “I can’t tell her the truth, it would destroy her to know what happened, in more ways than one. I’ll...I’ll think of something. But don’t think you’re getting away from your responsibility here. I won’t let you away clean with this. You should have known better Garret Hawke, and everything has its consequences.”

It was as his father turned away, moving back towards the fireplace with his stricken son standing behind him, that the mask finally gave way. Garret started forwards in fright as his father stumbled and fell to his knees, coughing roughly.

“Dad! What’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling down by his father as the man wheezed and grasped at his throat, his face suddenly pale, “I knew you shouldn’t have done that magic, this is my fault. Dad, tell me how to help!”

“No, no I’m alright,” his father waved him off as he struggled back to his feet, “I’m just tired, that’s all it is. It’s been a bad night, enough shock can do things to a body.”

“But dad..!” Garret tried to argue.

“Enough! I’m fine, honestly,” his father said sternly, “it’ll pass.”

They stood in silence, Malcolm leaning against the armchair while Garret stood nearby, fearful to leave his father alone in case he took another fall. It wasn’t the first time his father had taken a fitful turn, but he had always managed to explain it away somehow. Recently Garret had begun to wonder why it happened but could never get his father to elaborate further than ‘sometimes the magic doesn’t agree with me’, which he always took as a poor explanation.

“You see? I’m fine,” his father said, his face once more ruddy cheeked, the sickly pallor gone, “Come on, we can’t stand here all night fighting like fools. I want you to go to your bed and sleep, I’ll figure things out with your mother. If you dare try and get out that window again, lad, I’ll make sure you’re sealed up in there, understand?” Garret nodded quickly, “Tomorrow you’ll help me with the translation and everything will go back to the way it was. Alright?”

“Alright,” Garret nodded again, feeling foolish as he spoke his next words, but needing to know that his father understood, “dad I...I’m sorry and...I love you.”

“Good,” his father said with a small smile, making Garret frown, “maybe you do know more about love than I thought you did.”

* * *

 

Suffice to say that the next day they did not go for the goose dinner at the Fartherns. Beth and Carver had been unhappy, enough to vocalise it and keep Garret feeling incredibly guilty, considering they had been greatly looking forwards to the feast. Garret had been fearful when his mother had pulled him aside later that day, yet he was oddly thankful when she simply berated him for something he hadn’t done. His father had used Penny as an excuse, saying he’d caught her and Garret fooling around that night and that Vincent had found out, told him he didn’t want Garret working for him anymore or to come near his little girl. His mother seemed appeased by this explanation of why the Hawkes and the Fartherns were no longer associating with each other and sufficiently enraged by her son’s lack of forethought.

“You foolish boy,” she said as she clapped him around the ear, “how could you be so irresponsible! Why don’t you ever listen to me? I didn’t raise you to treat a girl in such a manner!”

Somehow his mother’s rage and her blows, while harder than his father’s, didn’t affect him in quite the same way. Garret did not act contrite, for he truly felt shame, even if it was not for the reason his mother thought.

 

 

He did not see Vincent Farthern again, except a few brief glimpses of the man at the marketplace or even when Garret was out rounding up their chickens, who sometimes strayed up over the Beacon hill in search of food and trouble. Whenever he did see him, however, the man always paled and made as quick an escape as he could, leaving Garret’s sight as quickly as possible. Garret was amazed that his father’s ‘curse’, or at least the threat of it, was so potent. The man couldn’t seem to bear looking at him for fear of being struck down by Malcolm Hawke’s wrath. At first, strangely, it had hurt. Hawke had known that everything his father said was true, that what had been between himself and Vincent had been nothing more than lies and fabrications, yet seeing the man again had brought flustered feelings back to the fore. It was only as he realised that the man would not even dare go against his father’s word in order to apologise to him or even speak to him at all, that Hawke truly knew the man was nothing more than the wretch his father had branded him as.

* * *

 

It was an oddly chill night when he and his father once more began working on their project. A cold front had swept in from over the east coast and had allowed cool winds and clear nights to sap the warmth from the land, signalling the approach of autumn. It had been two weeks since that night , two weeks since Malcolm Hawke had said that everything would go back to normal, and yet only now did his father seem to be able to come to terms with his son’s acceptance of what he had done and his apology. Garret had been desperate to know how his father had found them that night, how he had known where he had gone, but he was too proud to ask. In truth he had begun to suspect that all the cunning lies he thought he’d gotten away with over the weeks had not fooled his father one bit, but that Malcolm had known for far longer than Garret suspected that something was wrong. Considering Garret knew now that he barely understood the depth of his father’s magical ability, the wealth of spells and knowledge the man knew being a dizzying thought, he was sure that his father would probably have some way to track him. It was both a worrying and comforting thought simultaneously.

“You’re certainly improving,” his father said, sounding entirely genuine as he read over his son’s script while Garret continued to look down at the tome spread between them.

“I have a good teacher,” Garret said with a smile.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, lad,” his father shook his head but couldn’t seem to contain his own smile, “unless of course you could get me a slice of your mother’s fruitcake out of the larder to go with it.”

“Oh so flattery will get me nowhere but bribery will?” Garret asked even as he stood to retrieve the cake.

“Oh, bribery is such a harsh word,” his father said with a smirk, “think of it more as atonement.”

“Of course,” Garret tried to continue the joke, even as he felt a guilty stab at the implication.

When he returned his father was staring intently at his parchment, a small frown upon his face. He looked up when Garret handed him the small slab of dense cake, smoothing his frown away in place of a smile.

“Is everything alright?” Garret had asked, regardless.

“Oh, yes,” his father nodded before taking a bite out of the cake and chewing, “it’s just quite a difficult one this.”

“Maybe if you told me what you needed it for, that would help,” Garret said with a serious look.

“Ah, even I don’t know yet,” his father replied flippantly, “considering most of it so far doesn’t make much sense. After, son, after I’ll have you help me put all the pieces together.”

“You say that every time,” Garret said with a shake of his head as he accepted the parchment back from his father and placed it on the table in front of him, looking down to the words, elegantly written and yet covered in changes and mistakes, corrections and inkblots.

“And I mean it every time,” his father said, “honestly son, have a little faith.”

It had been a joke, he knew when his father was simply teasing him, yet he wasn’t sure that he could take it as such. It was so very close, enough to make the still raw wounds of his recent disgrace burn. He did, he thought, he did have faith in his father. Beyond the sheer shock and the sickening feeling of being caught in such a disgraceful manner, he remembered how worried and scared he had been when his father performed the entropy magic, how he had been terrified his father would kill another person, that everything he had thought about the man had been wrong.

As Garret Hawke dipped his quill into the inkwell and began scratching his continued translation onto the parchment before him, he realised that his faith in his father had perhaps been what was tested that night more than any form of misguided love; and they had come through it in the end. In truth, despite his tainted memories of his foolish pursuit of love from someone who could never return it in the way he needed, he knew he was happiest here, by the fire, with his father humming absent-mindedly under his breath while he read from his book, the sound of his mother outside in the garden picking herbs while Beth squealed as Carver chased her past the window, holding something suspiciously like a flatworm in his dirt smeared hands.

He knew his faith had been tested, and he had found that he had never lost it in the first place. He had faith that his family loved him no matter what and that he would always love them just as unconditionally. Nothing would ever come between that again, not ever, as far as he was concerned.

Hawke smiled and continued to write, looping his l’s and carving out the flat-topped g’s with a delicate stroke, just as his father did.

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Just a note that Garret being referred to as Hawke wasn’t a slip at the end there ;)


End file.
